


The Things Sun Tzu Didn't Teach(Lessons from the Father)

by The_Nineteenth_Key



Category: Supernatural, Twilight
Genre: And John, And their smells, Bella stayed in Phoenix where she belongs, I APOLOGIZE, Misunderstandings, Sammy has issues, all of them really - Freeform, descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of dead things, just no, non-cannon twilight characters, references of abuse, so does Dean, teen!chesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Nineteenth_Key/pseuds/The_Nineteenth_Key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurt him, sometimes, to watch Dean scrambling to hold the three of them together, filling in the gaps and taping up the seams like they were even a family in the first place.<br/>Like they've been a family since mom died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things Sun Tzu Didn't Teach(Lessons from the Father)

**Author's Note:**

> So I've decided to make my coauthorism offer universal for all my stories. I'll probably end up putting most of them up for adoption because I'm busy dammit. 
> 
> These Twilight characters are strictly fandom, with is sadly way more engaging then canon. Shudders.  
> Also, I hate Bella. With a passion like no other. Not sure if the La Push pack is gonna show up. <3 Wolves though, so probably.
> 
> Can be read as a one shot.

It hurt him, sometimes, to watch Dean scrambling to hold the three of them together, filling in the gaps and taping up the seams like they were even a family in the first place.  
Like they've been a family since mom died.

Dean was always the emotional one, the peacemaker, the one that would make everything okay for him, make sure he never had to be afraid. Sam never had the heart to tell him that he was always afraid, that there was icy-cold claws gripping his heart, tearing, tearing through his chest everytime they go out in the dark. That, for every creature they put down (not kill, never kill, he wasn't a killer) another three take its place, that they were fighting a war that they would never win and would never end.  
Hunting, he's realized, is a lot like a black hole, it takes and takes and takes and never gives anything back but that horrible inky blackness, the astronomical weight on his shoulders that told him, whispered in his ear and crowded his dreams, that for every time he failed, wasn't fast enough, strong enough, good enough, he killed someone else's mother. Brother. Father. (he wasn't a killer, honest, he wasn't)

He didn't want it, he hated it, the feel of blood on his hands that never quite went away no matter how hard he scrubbed or clawed or tried to forget, but he had too.  
Family was about sacrifice, his father said once, when he was very young, with a whisky-deep voice and distant eyes. Family comes first. So Sam smiled and 'yessir'ed and cleaned his weapons and killed things. (Was he a killer? No, no, he couldn't be.)  
They were family, after all, and family meant sacrifice. Family came first.

Sam just didn't know what else he could give.

They worried about him, he knew, looked at him from the corner of their eyes and spoke in hushed voices that he pretends he couldn't hear. Dean especially, watching him with frantic eyes, like Sam would disappear if he didn't stay vigilant.  
A part of him wonders if he already did, and that they were just too late to notice.  
*'its better this way,'* Sam thought. *'its better.'* But a distant, almost-forgotten part of him asks for who.

When Dad tells them that they were renting a house for a hunt, Sam knew it was for him. It was what he wanted, after all, to know what it felt like to have a home, even if he didn't quite have a family. But he could feel Deans gaze at his back so instead of laughing, or crying, or telling John Winchester to go to hell, he smiles, big and bright and dimpled.  
He thinks he felt his heart crumple under the pressure, but he wasn't entirely sure he still had one.

It was Dean who insisted that they stay for the school year, who argued that John could find plenty of hunts in the area. Sam wasn't surprised, in some ways, (most) Dean was more of a father than John ever was. (John, is that who he is now?) Sometimes, he wished Dean was his father.  
But mostly he thinks Dean is anyway.

A week before his junior year began, a poltergeist threw Sam into a wall and broke his arm in three places, gave him a fairly severe concussion and a smattering of bruises that looked like death but didn't hurt at all. Comparetively, anyway.

Dean was besides himself, he wouldn't leave Sam's bedside except for when Sam forced him to go and eat something. It was during one of these periods that his doctor, Dr. Cullen, who had to be the youngest doctor Sam had ever seen (and that was a lot of doctors) came inside his room, checked his I.V and asked in gentle tones if it there was anything wrong at home. It took him an embarrassingly long time to process the meaning behind the question and when he did, Sam couldn't stop himself from snorting. "Who, Dean? The man would rather chew his own arm off than hurt me. And Dad? No. Just. No." The doctor didn't look convinced (they never do) and stares at him a moment before handing him a card and saying that Sam could call anytime, even just to talk, and left. Sam fingered the smooth paper for a long moment before tucking it away for reasons he didn't really understand. Dean entered the room, arms full of his favorite flavour of yogurt and Sam puts the card to the back of his mind and forgets it entirely.

The day school starts, Dean drops him off in the parking lot, fussing in his own way over his cast, shoving him lunch money Sam knew he couldn't really give and shoos him out of the warmth of the impala with a gruff, "Be good, Sammy."  
Sam gives his half hearted, "The names Sam, jerk." And Dean laughs, so he counts it as something akin to victory even if it wasn't quite right. He makes his way over the wet pavement, the clouds overhead and Washington weather never giving it a chance to dry out, before he notices a group of teens staring at him from across the parking lot. He meets their gaze for a moment before ducking his head and resigning himself to being the fancy new toy for the first semester or so. Sam hated small towns as much as he appreciated them.

John and Dean were under the impression that Sam loved school, thrived in it, that it was apart of him like hunting was to them, in his blood. He wouldn't say they were wrong, only well, they were. The thing about school? Sam hated it. He hated the constant reminder that no matter how hard he tried he could never be normal, the way he looks around and only sees children that the real world is gonna hit head on like a frieght train after graduation. He hated the anxiety, the tightness in his chest and the shortness of breath that dominated whenever he had to walk across open spaces, unarmed and vulnerable, or the panic at the edge of his mind whenever he has his back to a room. It's not normal, he knows. He thinks he read somewhere that it was called hyper vigilance, and that its his bodies way of trying to keep him alive, his minds way of coping.  
Sam thought it was a pretty shitty method. He just wanted to be able to sleep through the night without nightmares, or eat Bacon without being reminded of the sickly sweet scent of burning rotted flesh.  
He knew Dean was trying to help, but really, Sam would rather not settle down, it would only hurt more when they had to move again. He decided that for now, he wouldn't bother to be the shy, gentle giant, he wouldn't make any connections, he would wait until Dean gave this up as a bad job or John moved them again.  
Nothing would change. They'll see. Nothing had to change.

 

It's been three days since school started, and by some miracle, it was sunny all three days. Sam had just started to lose the shine of being new and he couldn't be more greatful. The fact that he hadn't yet spoke a word or even deigned to acknowledge anyone unless spoken too and even then only to teachers probably helped. It made Sam thankful for his height, which was undoubtably the only reason he didn't have to deal with would-be bullies instead.

By the time lunch started he was exhausted, in pain and a bone deep kind of tired that set roots in the mind grew until there wasn't room for anything else. He guesses he's felt that way for awhile, and he knows he should suck it up and move on, but it most days he feels too numb to get out of bed, only managing it when he feels Dean's concerned gaze from the other side of the room. So he leaves his free period a little early, trudges his way to the cafeteria and prompty collapses on the table furthest from the entrance(closest to the emergency exit, front to the rest of the room, easily defensible) in a miserable heap. He pops a few painkillers, sends a text to Dean letting him know that he was still alive, if only barely, borrows his head into the warm cavern of his good arm and tries to forget the rest of the world exists. 

The next three weeks continue in the same pattern, Sam goes to school, books it to the cafeteria, rests his head on the table and tries to ignore the terror running up his spine, goes home, does homework, poses for Dean (not that it did much good, the man practically raised him, knew all his tells), and sleeps.

He tries not to remember if he dreams. (but of course he does, memories are funny like that) 

The fourth week in he was able to replace the big, bulky thing on his arm with a slightly smaller version and tries not to notice the pitying looks the nurses threw his way. Of course, the week after that he was back in the E.R getting stitches because he had begged and pleaded to be taken on a hunt, a simple salt and burn, where he managed to trip over some slick foliage and cut himself open on a peace of rusted scrap metal once everything was said and done. (Deans face of angerworrydisbeliefexasperationfear at the sight may have been worth it) 

It was just his luck to be under the care of the same nurses as before. He wishes they could of stitched it up themselves, but he prefers this over tetnis, if only marginally. They tend to him with a wounded sort of compassion on their faces and it makes Sam want to cry and scream and explode because they don't get it. If it meant protecting his family(the closest thing he has to normal ) Sam knew he would gladly pay the price in blood. Family was everything to a Winchester, family was all you had, even if its broken. (Especially when it was, because you have to work twice as hard to hold it together) 

He gets out of there as quickly as he can, feeling too tight in his skin, breaths coming fast in the beginnings of a panic attack, adrenaline in his veins telling him to *runhidefightdeanrun* with each beat of his heart, to fight and win and live because he doesn't know anything else.  
But Sam doesn't do any of that. He takes a deep breath and schools his face in a look of careful indifference.  
He imagines it looks rather gruesome since he's still has his bloody clothes on and is covered in mud to boot, but there's not much to be done about that, and he had already forcibly sent Dean to fetch new clothes since he knew that staying would only stress him out more. 

Sam thinks back to the nurses concerned gazes and tells himself that it is all for family, that family means sacrifice. He loves his family.  
He just doesn't know if it's enough.


End file.
